Kings and Kingdoms
by Percie Jean
Summary: A look at what each of the newsies wished for as "King of New York" and what became of those wishes.
1. Kings of New York

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and dialogue from _Newsies _referenced in this story belong to Disney and not to me. I only own the various OCs scattered throughout the later chapters of this story.

* * *

**A/N: **This was inspired by the perplexing choice in Newsies the Musical to give Race the line about a pair of new shoes with matching laces rather than his character's original (and seemingly more fitting) line about the box at the Sheepshead Races. In such cases as these, what's a confused fansie to do...except write an explanatory backstory?

The first section consists of short sketches, one for each of the newsies. The subsequent chapters will explore how these scenarios played out in their lives over the course of the days and years to follow.

* * *

_**"A pair of new shoes with matching laces."**_

He was sure it sounded like an odd request, especially coming from him, but if there was one thing Race secretly enjoyed, it was to keep people guessing.

The shoes, of course, had been the first thing to come to mind. He'd seen them in a shop window months ago, and had envisioned owning them for so long that he could practically _feel _them in his hands: smooth, supple leather, even machine-sewn stitching...and matching laces. They were beautiful. They were the perfect shoes.

But they weren't for him.

Most of the Manhattan newsies thought they knew everything there was to know about Racetrack Higgins. They knew that he'd been born on the other side of the Bridge. They knew that he no longer spoke to, or about, his parents (notwithstanding the occasional reference to his mother and the Coronas). They knew that he maintained an enigmatic understanding with Spot Conlon, which allowed Race to pass undisturbed through territory that even the bravest newsie would hesitate to cross. They knew that Race was a light sleeper who often snuck out of the lodging house at night when the fire sirens and noises of the city kept him awake.

But no one, not even Jack, knew that the cocksure snarker of their group had a little sister that he still secretly visited in Brooklyn. A sister whose tattered, threadbare boots barely covered her feet as she trudged to work at the tea factory in the frigid morning hours. She was Race's only remaining family. He adored her. And he was going to get her those shoes if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

_**"A permanent box at the Sheepshead Races."**_

Romeo lived by the adage "go big or go home." What was life about if it it didn't involve taking a risk every once in a while? What was there to live for if you couldn't dream an impossible dream? He may have been the smallest newsie (before Les came along), but what he lacked in size and strength he more than made up for in unflappable optimism. It was a trait unique to Romeo, setting him apart from many of his newsie brothers who favored a less quixotic view on life. Race scoffed at it, Crutchie indulged it, Davey worried about it, and Jack-though he was a dreamer himself-secretly tried to temper Romeo's unparalleled enthusiasm, afraid that the crushing reality of the world would be too much for his sanguine little brother.

But nothing seemed to dampen Romeo's zest for life and his determination to experience it to the fullest. And when he envisioned the life that fame would bring him, his thoughts turned immediately to the extravagant and lavish.

He had actually never been inside the Sheepshead Bay Racetrack. He'd heard Race talk about it often enough, had even tagged along with him once, trying to sneak inside while Race was occupied selling the afternoon edition (that hadn't gone over so well). Hearing the excitement of the crowds as they took in one of Brooklyn's greatest attractions was intoxicating, and Romeo was determined to experience it firsthand, not as a newsboy outside selling papers to the racetrack patrons, but front and center, from his own private box. He knew that it was a long shot. But he was equally convinced that one day it would be a reality. It was only a matter of time.

* * *

_**"Pastrami on rye with a sour pickle."**_

He had developed a taste for seasoned beef sandwiches and sour pickles at the same time he'd developed an awareness of labor associations - at a young age. In fact, though Henry hadn't let on, he probably could have given Davey a run for his money when it came to explaining the components of a union to Jack and the curious newsboys.

Henry had grown up working at his family's deli, which was within walking distance of Union Square. His mother often took Henry and his older brother there for a picnic lunch when business at the deli was slow. They would make themselves some sandwiches and enjoy an afternoon of sunshine and lounging on the grass before returning to work.

Sometimes, there would be a union rally taking place. Henry could still hear the roar of the crowds, galvanized by the soaring words of their leaders who urged them to join forces and stand for their rights. It was always exhilarating to hear and to watch.

"Never forget the power of many standing as one," his mother had remarked to her sons. "One alone may be overpowered, but a rope of many strands cannot be easily split." Henry may not have completely understood her words at the time, but they had stuck, and they came back to him now as he sat among his triumphant friends at Jacobi's Deli. They may have been just a bunch of kids, insignificant to the world and those who ran it, but together they would make their voices heard.

* * *

_**"My personal puss on a wooden nickel."**_

It had to be the most outlandish thing he could think of. Because, really, who were they kidding? It was a great headline, but it was only a headline. And if there was one thing Finch knew, it was that any headline only lasted for one day (unless, of course, it was about a trolley strike).

So, he outwardly rode the wave of his friends' enthusiasm while inwardly anchoring himself to reality, wishing for the most impractical and ridiculous thing he could think of - because that was preferable to wishing for something you truly wanted...and then being hit by the realization that, at the end of the day, a headline was only a headline.

Dreaming made Finch antsy, so he did it with two feet on the ground.

* * *

_**"A solid gold watch with a chain to twirl it."**_

Jojo was honestly surprised when he heard his friends rattle off their wishes as King of New York. With the exception of Romeo's racetrack box, all of their desires seemed...lamentably _pedestrian_ (Jojo silently congratulated himself on applying one of the big words Davey had taught him). Had the newsies become so used to their impoverished lives that their dreams could rise no higher than simple pleasures?

Jojo shook his head. He wouldn't begrudge Race his shoes or Henry his sandwich, but _his_ prized possession as King of New York was going to be something much more valuable and flashy.

* * *

_**"My very own bed and an indoor terlet."**_

It wasn't that Les really minded sharing a bed with Davey. There were a few positive aspects to the arrangement: the familiarity of his older brother's presence was comforting, and it was warmer in the winter that way. Plus, Davey always gave Les the lion's share of the bed, even if it meant scrunching his lanky frame into the most impossibly cramped positions.

It was just that Davey talked in his sleep. _A lot_. And while the occasional opportunity for blackmail was enticing, Les honestly would have preferred an uninterrupted night's rest.

The wish for an indoor toilet needed no explanation.

* * *

_**"A barbershop haircut that cost a quarter."**_

Over the past several years that he'd lived with the newsies, Mush had seen it happen too many times to count: his older brothers floundering as they aged out of the newsboy profession, thrust into a merciless world with nothing to show for years of hawking headlines other than a knack for "improving the truth."

It disheartened Mush more than he was willing to admit.

He'd inherited an old pair of barbershop scissors that had been left behind by a former tenant, and had taken up practicing on anyone in the lodging house brave enough to let him near their hair. His first attempts had been rather pitiful (Race still got teased about his "mutt cut"), but Mush persisted, offering up his hard-earned pennies as incentive when he couldn't find enough volunteers. Gradually, his skills improved to a point where he was cutting nearly all the boys' hair (though Jack and Romeo still refused to let him touch theirs).

If he could only observe a _real_ barber, though, he knew he could learn so much more. And maybe, with even more practice, he could find a job at a barbershop when he got too old to be a newsboy. It was a long shot, but Mush was quietly determined.

_Papers is all I got_.

But if he had anything to say about it, that wouldn't be the final word.

* * *

_**"A regular beat for the star reporter."**_

"_I'd say we save our exclusive interview for a real reporter." _

The words had been calm and matter-of-fact, but Davey knew that they had struck of nerve when he saw Katherine falter for the first time since she'd burst in on the newsies at Jacobi's. She'd been breezily confident-cocky, even-but his statement had taken the wind right out of her sails.

And Davey had been secretly pleased. He wasn't trying to be petty, but her assessment of the newsies as a "rag-tag group of ragamuffins" had been patronizing and wrong. They may not have looked like much, but Katherine, from her place of privilege, had no right to disregard them.

Sitting among the jubilant newsies celebrating their headline in the _Sun, _Davey was suddenly struck by how he'd missed the irony of the situation. At first glance, Katherine had written the them off because they were young and poor. They'd done the same to her because she was a woman.

And Davey had to admit that his assessment of Katherine as something less than a real reporter had been patronizing and wrong. They had the headline in the _Sun_ to prove it.

So when it was Davey's turn, he said sincerely what he'd wish for as King of New York: success for the star reporter who had come through for them, and deserved all the respect and recognition they could give her.

* * *

_**A/N: **__**Up next:**_ _Race receives some unexpected news on his next trip to Brooklyn._


	2. Race

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies_ belong to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Race nearly stopped and bought a copy of the morning edition from the first newsie he saw hawking _The_ _Sun_, but then he remembered that he needed the money for the lodging house fee that night and forced himself to keep walking. It would have been nice to have a pape with his picture in it to show Sophie, but he had something even better to give her.

It had been a good week of betting at Sheepshead, which Race was grateful for. The other newsies were scraping by, but eventually they'd all be sleeping on the streets if the strike dragged on. Race was grateful that he'd been lucky enough to be able to cover his lodging house fees this week, plus a little extra. He probably should have saved the money; who knew when he'd get another full day's work? But, half-drunk on fame and in a celebratory mood, he hadn't thought twice about making a quick purchase at a nearby shop. He then turned his steps towards Brooklyn, the package for Sophie secure in his waistcoat pocket.

The day was a warm one, and Race kept a brisk pace, arriving at the tea factory where Sophie worked just as the afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he hunkered down on a nearby barrel across the street and lit his cigar, watching the workers' gate out of the corner of his eye, but keeping his gaze fixed on the passersby. This was familiar territory enough, but it never hurt to be careful.

He didn't have to wait long before the sound of voices reached his ears. Race snuffed out his cigar and stowed it away for safekeeping, just as his sister emerged from the now-opened factory gates amidst a flood of other child workers. He gave her a quick once-over, noting with satisfaction that her face looked less gaunt than the last time he'd seen her.

"Tony!" a grin lit up Sophie's face as she caught sight of him. Giving her companions a hasty farewell, she ran across the street towards Race. "I was hopin' you'd come by soon!" she exclaimed, as her brother pulled her into an affectionate one-armed hug. "Is it true what I've been hearin'? Are you and the newsies really on strike?"

"It's true all right, Soph!" Race declared, unable to resist the opportunity to preen. "We shut down the _World_, and your brother made front page of the _New York Sun_!"

Sophie clapped her hands, her eyes shining with pride. "So you're _famous_ now!"

"Better believe it!" Race chuckled, amused by how alike they thought. Sophie was only twelve, but she was sharp as a whip, and they had always gotten along well. When Race had left Brooklyn behind, one of the few things he regretted was not making his sister come with him. Sophie hadn't been ready to leave the only home she'd known, but he should have made her see reason.

"So, what's my famous brother been doin' now that there aren't any papers to sell?" Sophie asked, breaking into his thoughts as they began to walk down the street. "You haven't been gettin' into trouble, have you, Tony? You're sportin' quite the shiner there."

"Nah." Race had completely forgotten his black eye, but he quickly waved off her concern. "Just a little run-in with the Bulls."

Sophie's eyes widened. "The Bulls! They...they ain't after you, right?" She glanced anxiously over her shoulder, clutching her older brother's arm as if expecting a surprise assault right then and there. "Tony, if they catch you again, and drag you off to that awful place - "

"No," Race cut in fiercely. "It ain't like that, Sophie." He squeezed her hand reassuringly. "You don't haf'ta worry, all right? I ain't lettin' anyone lock me in there ever again." Sophie bit her lip, still clearly upset at memories neither of them wanted to give voice to, but she didn't question him further, and the siblings continued on wordlessly for the next several moments.

"I saw Mama yesterday," Sophie remarked, finally breaking the silence.

"Oh yeah?" Race's fingers twitched at the sudden change of subject, but he kept his expression neutral, even as he fought the urge to pull out his cigar. They hadn't seen their mother in almost a year, and he had begun to think that maybe she'd vanished out of their lives for good. He'd hoped that it was true. As far as Race was concerned, his mother was dead to him, and he was sure the feeling was reciprocal.

"She's...she's kind of in a bad way," Sophie went on, giving him an uneasy sideways glance. "Franklin threw her out last week, and I guess it's been pretty hard for her to find work..."

Race stopped short and turned to face her, all pretense of detachment vanishing. "Soph, don't tell me she asked you for money again!" he exclaimed. His sister didn't answer, and Race cursed angrily under his breath. "You know we both agreed it ain't doin' her no good to keep comin' back to you like this," he muttered, trying to hold on to his temper. "It ain't doin' you no good, either!"

Sophie hung her head. "I know, Tony - I'm sorry. It's just...when I see her like that standin' in front of me, I just can't say no to her!"

"Well, you'd better learn how to start doin' it soon!" Race scowled. "You's workin' yourself to the bone, scraping by with hardly anything to eat, your shoes is completely shot, and you can barely afford the roof over your head! You can't keep lettin' her do this to you, Sophie! Just because she's choosin' to ruin her life doesn't mean she's gotta go an' ruin yours, too - "

"She's our _mother_, Tony!" the girl pleaded.

"You don't think I know that?!" Race snapped. He exhaled sharply, turning away from his sister's stricken expression as he fought for control of his emotions. He wanted to slam his fists into the nearby wall, but instead slowly forced his hands to unclench. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet and pained. "You don't think I tried my best to save her, too?"

He hadn't really traded his mother for a box of cigars. It had been more like the opposite, actually. And no matter how many flippant jokes he made about it, Race knew deep in his heart that the ache would never go away.

He took another deep breath, willing himself to calm down. This was why he couldn't stay in Brooklyn. The past inevitably came looming up to haunt him, pulling him back into its thrall despite his knowledge that there was absolutely nothing he could to do change the way things were. Pulling him back the way it was pulling Sophie now.

Glancing over at his sister, he saw that she was waiting hesitantly for him to speak. "I'm sorry," Race said, ducking his head regretfully. "I didn't mean to blow up at ya like that." His sister stepped forward and enveloped him in a hug.

" 's okay, Tony," she murmured. "I know it's hard for you to hear about Mother. I just...I just don't want you to think bad of me 'cause I can't stand up to her the way you can." Race shook his head.

"I couldn't. That's why I left." He pulled back, looking her in the eye. "And I would never think bad of you for that...alright?"

Sophie didn't reply, but she gave him a tiny smile. Race sighed. He had hoped for a lighthearted, celebratory reunion on this trip to Brooklyn, but he would settle for an amicable end to their disagreement. Deciding he really needed his cigar, he reached into his waistcoat pocket, and suddenly remembered the package he'd carefully stowed away. A bit of his good humor returned.

"I almost forgot, I brought 'cha somethin,'" he said eagerly, retrieving the small parcel and holding it out to Sophie. "It ain't all of what I wanted to get, but the rest of it'll be comin' as soon as I can manage it."

Sophie took the package curiously, unwrapping it with nimble fingers, and letting out a laugh when she saw what was inside. "Matching shoelaces! How'd you know I needed these, Tony?"

Race grinned, pleased at her reaction. "You like 'em, Soph?"

"They're perfect! I only got one lace left, and the twine I'm usin' for the other shoe keeps fraying." She gave her brother a winning smile. "You're the best, Tony."

"Like I said, this is just a little somethin' to start. I'm gonna getcha the shoes to go with them next, I just gotta save a little more."

They continued walking, chatting about lighthearted matters until they reached the lodging house where Sophie lived with the other tea factory children. Race glanced at the setting sun, noting the approaching nightfall with regret. "Look, I gotta be headin' back. Jack and the boys'll be lookin' for me. But I'll come around again soon, Soph. I promise." He punched her lightly in the arm. "You be good, all right?"

"Always am. And you be careful, Tony," Sophie smiled, punching him in return.

"Always am," Race replied, completing his half of their customary farewell. He hesitated for a moment, before adding, "And Soph, maybe one of these days I could show you what it's like on the other side of the Bridge. You could, you know, hawk headlines with me for a day, meet Jack and the boys...just think about it, all right? Manhattan ain't so bad."

"Course it ain't, Tony. You're there." Sophie gave him a little wave. "Now get goin'," she urged, turning to enter the lodging house. "Don't make them worry."

Race watched her disappear inside, then with a small grin, turned his steps towards Manhattan and did as he was told.

* * *

_**A/N**__: __**Up next: **__Romeo finds that sometimes the simplest pleasures are the most rewarding. _


	3. Romeo

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies_ belong to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Romeo rocked back and forth on his heels, timecard in hand, waiting patiently in line to punch out for the day. His entire team had been dismissed early, so thankfully the queue for the employee time clock wasn't too long. When it was his turn, he slid his timecard into the machine for it to be stamped, then replaced the card in its slot on the wall before heading over to the rows of lockers where his belongings were kept.

One of his coworkers, Jolt, gave him a friendly wave. "Nice to be leavin' early for a change," he remarked.

"You bet." Romeo pulled his coat out of the locker and adjusted his cap on his head before closing the door to the compartment. "And it's a beautiful day. I'm half thinkin' I'll skip the trolley and stretch my legs instead."

"That's a heck of a lot of walkin,'" Jolt said doubtfully.

Romeo laughed. "I used to be a newsboy. Ain't nothin' like wakin' up every day and hawkin' headlines all over the city, walkin' 'till you fall."

"Hah - if you say so!" Jolt acquiesced, donning his cap. "Well, you enjoy your walk, Romeo. "I'm headin' out. See ya tomorrow."

"See ya, Jolt."

They all went by nicknames at the factory. It was one of the things that reminded Romeo of his newsboy days. His thoughts wandered fondly to his newsie brothers, wondering how each one was doing. He figured that most of them hadn't gone far, but in a place as busy and crowded as New York, you could easily live within a few miles of each other and never cross paths.

Squinting as his eyes adjusted to the sunshine, Romeo left the factory grounds and began strolling down the street, relishing the rare satisfaction of having nowhere to rush off to on a Thursday afternoon. The buzz of the city and the busyness of the street never failed to enliven him. He was thankful for a steady job at the factory, but sometimes he missed the freedom of being a newsboy, as hard as that life had been. There was something about being outside, feeling the sun on your face and the wind in your hair, sharpening your wit to hawk a humdrum headline, or turning up your charm to sell the next edition. It hadn't been easy, but it had been reliably satisfying. It had suited him.

Of course, Romeo mused, if he had never taken the job at the factory, he would have never met Jules...so he considered it a worthwhile tradeoff.

Humming a few bars of "Let Me Call You Sweetheart," Romeo wondered if Jules would be at home when he arrived, or if she would have taken advantage of the mild weather to take Adrian to the park.

Hearing the sound of a headline being "improved" as he passed a busy intersection, Romeo's thoughts returned to his former life as a newsie. He recalled the amateur quartet he'd formed with Mush, Finch, and Buttons. Their collaborations had often ended in good-natured arguments (Albert had snidely christened them the "Scrappy Songbirds"), but they had enjoyed entertaining the lodging house with their renditions of the latest vaudeville tunes picked up at Miss Medda's theater. Romeo wondered if it would be possible to get their act back together, just for old time's sake. The last time they'd all been in the same place was at Jack and Katherine's wedding, and that had taken place years ago.

Romeo wondered if the Kellys had stayed in New York, or if they had followed Jack's dream and moved west. Had they started a family of their own by now? Would their little one have Jack's charisma, Katherine's spunk, or an entirely different personality? What about Crutchie? Had he been able to find a job where he could rest his legs occasionally, and was his weather indicator as accurate as it had always been? Was Race still helping to manage things at the lodging house, or had he gone back to Brooklyn? Les Jacobs would be a young man by now; had had gotten his wish to be taller than Davey once his growth spurt hit?

Lost in his thoughts, Romeo didn't even notice the time, didn't really pay attention to where his footsteps were taking him. He was about a half mile from home when he passed by the Sheepshead Bay Racetrack.

Or rather, what had _been_ the Sheepshead Bay Racetrack.

Romeo stopped short, his eyes widening in surprise as he took in the sight of the abandoned grounds. He'd heard that the racetrack had closed over a year ago, but since he usually took the trolley home, he had little occasion to pass through this part of town and hadn't thought much about it. Seeing the once extravagant and busy race course overgrown and the proud but empty grandstand looming silently in the background gave him pause. It wasn't in Romeo's nature to brood, but he couldn't help but feel a bit melancholy. It had once been a boyish dream of his to have a box in that grandstand. Even then, he'd known it was a dream that was unlikely to be realized...but seeing the indisputable proof of it right in front of his eyes made him a little sad.

Throwing his coat over his shoulder, Romeo skirted the racetrack's perimeter, a breeze ruffling his hair and blowing through the dark green bunches of ryegrass growing along the fence. Rambling clusters of wild roses grew alongside the weeds, and Romeo stopped to admire the bright pink blossoms, their vibrant color a splash of hopeful beauty amidst the quiet desolation of the abandoned racetrack.

Pulling out his pocket knife, he knelt down, carefully taking one of the blossoms in his hand and cutting it at the peduncle to avoid the thorns. He took the flower gently between his fingers, then rose, walking away without looking back.

He would never get his racetrack box. But that hadn't been his only dream.

Romeo didn't have to walk long before the tenement where he lived came into view. He took the four flights of stairs to his apartment with ease, eager to be home. Holding the rose carefully, he lifted his free hand and made a series of quick taps on the door, his own special knock.

A voice from within shrieked "Papa!" and Romeo heard a pair of small feet running to the door. Then it was thrown open, and a little dark-haired boy launched himself into his father's waiting arms. Romeo held his son close, murmuring a hello, and smiling over the boy's shoulder at the woman standing in the doorway as he silently offered her the pink rose.

She took it, eyes shining, and he was struck (not for the first, and not for the last time) by how much he loved her. She had fulfilled his wildest dreams, and when Adrian came along, Romeo's happiness had overflowed. Of all the amazing experiences, glorious feelings, and wonderful things he could have had in the world, he was absolutely sure nothing could come close to the simple joy of he was feeling right now, holding his son in his arms and gazing at his wife.

Jules took his coat and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Welcome home, Romeo."

* * *

_**A/N**__: __The Sheepshead Bay Racetrack closed in 1911 (source: "A Short History of the Sheepshead Bay" by Teresa Genaro of The New York Times). _

_**Up next: **__Henry surprises his mother. _


	4. Henry

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies_ belong to Disney and not to me.

* * *

As the sound of cheering voices swelled around him, Henry slipped quietly towards the back of the crowd of celebrating newsies and took off for Jacobi's. Opening the door to the deli, his stomach growled instinctively at the smell of fresh bread and the sight of cold cuts arranged neatly in the refrigerated case. He'd missed the afternoon rush, so it was quiet, with only a few customers finishing up their lunches. Henry made his way over to the counter and placed his order, then settled down at one of the tables to wait.

Belatedly realizing that he hadn't thought about stopping at the lodging house to change, Henry got up and made his way to the washroom at the back of the deli. He splashed some water on his face at the sink, running his hands through his hair in an attempt to make it look more presentable. The cracked mirror that hung over the washbasin wasn't doing him any favors, and Henry scowled at his reflection before pulling his cap down over his hair. It was hopeless. He should have made Mush give him a trim yesterday - goodness knows they'd had enough idle time due to the strike - but he hadn't thought that far ahead.

When he made his way back to the front of the deli, his order was already being called.

"Three pastrami on rye with a side of 'slaw and a sour pickle!"

Henry claimed the paper bag, paid for his order, and headed out to the street. The walk was a little over a mile, but he covered the distance quickly enough, and soon was trotting up the steps to his mother's apartment complex. Usually at this time of day, she would have been at work at the garment factory, but Henry knew that today she would be home.

He made his way to the second floor and down a narrow hallway to the fourth door on the right. There was a little yellow rag wreath hanging there from a nail; his mother must have made it from discarded scraps at the factory. She was always making things to brighten up her small apartment or to give away to friends and neighbors. He wondered if any of them had stopped by over the past week to check on her. Henry tapped quietly on the door, hoping he was just loud enough to catch his mother's attention.

"Who is it?" came a muffled voice inside.

"It's me, Ma," Henry replied.

"Henry!" His mother opened the door, giving him a surprised look. "Come in! Is everything alright?"

"The strike's over, Ma," Henry responded, stepping inside. "We won."

Relief flooded his mother's features, and she pulled him into a hug. "Welcome news! I'm so proud of you, Henry!"

"Well, I was pretty scared," Henry admitted, "but then I remembered what you said about how when many stand as one, they ain't easy to beat."

"They _aren't _easy to beat," his mother corrected gently.

Henry chuckled. "Sorry Ma."

Unlike many of his newsie brothers, Henry had come from a family that valued education, a family like Davey and Les's. He'd gone to school whenever he could, and when things got busy at the deli and he and Eddie were pulled out of class to help, his mother made sure they kept up with their lessons at home. She had come from an educated family herself, and capably taught her boys in the evenings whenever they needed to stay home from school.

But everything had changed when the boys' father died. The deli was sold, and while the money from the sale was substantial, they knew it wouldn't last forever. Henry's mother thriftily found work for herself at a nearby garment factory. The boys, similarly industrious, also took jobs, Eddie joining the trolley workers and Henry becoming a newsboy. And that had been the end of their school lessons and book learning. Henry still tried his best whenever he saw his mother (he knew it distressed her that he and Eddie had never been able to finish school), but after living with the newsies for almost four years, proper grammar had all but gone by the wayside.

"How have you been holding up, Ma?" Henry asked gently, removing his cap and setting it on a hook by the door (at least his manners, though rusty, hadn't completely been forgotten).

His mother gave him a tired smile. "I'm enduring the best I can. I'm just grateful that we had enough money saved for me to take some time off from the factory, and I'm grateful that you and Eddie are such hard workers and brave boys. I know it hasn't been easy for either of you these past several days." She looked like she was about to tear up. "I'm so relieved to hear that the newsboy strike is settled, Henry," she said softly. "I worried about you every day."

And she'd had good cause to. Henry expression darkened. He hadn't told his mother about the threats they'd faced from Snyder and the Bulls, hadn't mentioned Crutchie's arrest or his friends' black eyes and sprained arms. He was thankful he hadn't sustained many visible injuries. His mother didn't need another reminder of how dangerous a strike could be.

She'd been living with the proof of it every day for the past week.

"How is he?" Henry asked, gesturing to the door leading to the apartment's back room.

His mother's face grew sober. "He'll recover. But - " she bit her lip, and Henry could see the tears she'd held back nearly springing to her eyes before she composed herself, " - but he's in a lot of pain." She sighed. "It's so hard to see him like this." Henry squeezed her hand sympathetically.

"I brought his favorite," he said, setting the paper bag on the table. "The 'slaw looked fresh today."

"Bless you." His mother still sounded a bit teary. "He hasn't been wanting to eat, but this may entice him." She set about unwrapping the food at the table, and Henry, suddenly finding that he was no longer hungry, sat down on a wooden stool a few feet away.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," he said. "There's been a lot going on." In truth, he'd been wanting to come since she'd sent word that Eddie had been hurt and that she was taking time off from the factory to nurse him back to health. But Henry hadn't been ready to face his mother, not while the newsboy strike had been in progress. If things had gone badly, she would have had another broken boy to worry about. He couldn't be the one laying that burden upon her.

"There's no need to apologize," his mother answered gently, coming over to place her hand on his shoulder. "You did what you needed to do...and so did Eddie." There was a quiet pride in her voice.

Henry rose from his perch on the stool. "Can I...can I see him?" he asked.

His mother beckoned, reaching over to the table to hand Henry a plate with a sandwich and some coleslaw on it. "He may already be awake. Why don't you take him his lunch?" Henry received the food silently, apprehension pooling in his stomach as his mother added, "I know Eddie will be happy to see you, Henry. But...just prepare yourself. What happened to him...it wasn't pleasant."

Henry's grip tightened on the plate he was holding, but he only nodded, making his way to the back room. He knocked gently on the door before opening it.

The back room was dark, a single, curtained window providing the only light source, but Henry could make out the bed in the corner and could hear his brother stirring at the sound of the door creaking open.

"Eddie…?" he said tentatively. "It's Henry. I brought you some food...pastrami on rye, and the coleslaw you like from Jacobi's."

"Put it down on the table over there, will you?" Eddie's voice was weak, and he groaned in pain as he shifted to face Henry.

Henry set the plate down, then stood peering into the darkness, trying to get a better glimpse of his brother. The light was dim, but he could see a profusion of white bandages all over Eddie's body and hear his labored breathing as he struggled to turn over in bed. Henry's hands trembled. He wanted to rush over to help, but some emotion he couldn't place held him rooted to the spot. It had been the same emotion that had caused him to leave the celebration early at Newsie Square. His friends had been ecstatic, and rightfully so. But in the joy of the moment, it was easy to forget that making your voice heard always came at a cost.

"Hey," Eddie's voice pierced the darkness of Henry's thoughts. "You're not going to break me, alright? Get over here."

So Henry stumbled over to the bed, put his head down next to his brother's, and let the tears come.

* * *

_**Up next: **__Pragmatic, straight-shooting Finch experiences a rare moment of nostalgia. _


	5. Finch

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies_ belong to Disney and not to me.

* * *

He knew that he should have bought a few more copies of the morning edition now that he could sell back whatever was left at the end of the day. There was no risk. But Finch was grasping for some sense of normalcy, so he bought his usual fifty papes.

Hunkering down a few yards away from the circulation window with the intent to peruse the morning's headlines, Finch found himself instead watching the queue of newsboys. True to form, Albert was heckling Wiesel at the window. Romeo, next in line, rocked back and forth on his heels, whistling a tune. Henry was forcing down the remainder of his donut, grimacing at its stale taste. Sniper, already looking dismayed at the morning heat, was fanning himself with his newsboy cap. Buttons scratched away at his flea bites. All seemed right with the world, and to an outsider, it would have appeared to be a completely ordinary day.

Except, it wasn't. And, contrary to the normalcy exhibited by the line at the circulation window, there was plenty of evidence to prove that things were anything but the usual.

Crutchie, for one. Normally he was near the head of the group, his quarter in hand and his perennial smile in place. But today, he was lagging behind, the effects of his time at the Refuge readily apparent in the tired way he leaned on his crutch. Finch knew that Crutchie was too proud to ask for help, but he wondered if the crippled newsie would even be able to carry the banner this morning considering all of the injuries he had sustained over the past few days.

And then there was the strange case of Racetrack Higgins and Davey Jacobs. Finch would never have pegged the two as friends, but he couldn't deny that, right before his eyes, those very newsies were engaging in a lively conversation which ended, not with an acerbic jab by Race and a withering look from Davey, but with a hug and a hearty slap on the back. If Finch had been a betting man, he would have put money on Race and Davey soaking each other before becoming chums. And yet, here they were, acting like brothers.

Most astonishing of all was Jack.

Finch had never been a dreamer. His life revolved around the practical concerns of each day: what the weather was going to be like, and how that would affect his selling prospects; how he was going to pay for his next night at the lodging house; whether or not he had enough extra change to grab a drink at Jacobi's. He didn't think much about the future, reasoning that he would deal with the inevitable when it came to him, and preferring to stay grounded in the present reality. Jack, Finch knew, was different. Jack was the biggest dreamer of them all. And Santa Fe had been Jack's dream for as long as Finch had known him.

So why hadn't he left?

Finch guessed that the reporter, Katherine, was a significant part of the answer. Jack was clearly smitten with her. But Katherine had all but promised to stay with Jack regardless of whether he remained in New York or left for Santa Fe. So she wasn't the one holding him back.

Could it have been Davey, then? It was evident that, despite their relatively short friendship, the two boys had formed a strong connection. But their camaraderie had been forged in the crucible of the strike, and now that the strike was over, would there be enough to sustain a close friendship without the attraction of a mutual endeavor? Perhaps, with time. But at this point it seemed highly unlikely that Jack would give up a lifelong dream of his for a friend he had practically just met.

Crutchie, perhaps, would have been the most compelling reason to stay. His bond with Jack was the strongest of any of the newsies, and their friendship went back for years. Finch knew that Crutchie held a special place in Jack's heart, and that Jack was one of the few people Crutchie truly allowed to help him. So, it was possible that Jack stayed because he couldn't bear the thought of leaving Crutchie behind.

But Finch sensed it was something more than that. The end of the strike - more accurately, its successful conclusion - had changed Jack somehow. Finch couldn't put his finger on what it was. But there was hope in Jack's voice that he had never heard before, and the spark of something undefinable that broke through the dark and bitter weariness clinging to Jack like the fog off of the harbor.

The strike had, indeed, changed things. The proof was right in front of Finch's eyes, yet here he was, struggling to accept it. In his mind, winning the strike had always been like Romeo's racetrack box or Jojo's solid gold watch: a dream. A tantalizing, compelling, nearly impossible dream. And Finch had stopped dreaming years ago, the day he'd run away from home, because dreams were well and good for sleeping, but when you woke up, you realized that dreams rarely, if ever, came true.

This one had, though. And Finch wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Making one last half-hearted attempt to scrutinize the headlines before giving up, he jumped to his feet, shoved the papers into his newsboy bag, and took off at a brisk pace. Unlike most of the newsies, Finch didn't have a favorite selling spot. He'd set off in the morning and let his feet carry him where they willed, and if the papes were moving, he'd stay put until things slowed down, then change his spot and repeat the process. (He steered clear of Brooklyn, of course...not that he was scared of anyone's turf or anything. It was _respect_ and _self-preservation _that drove him to avoid getting anywhere near Spot's territory. Never fear).

Finch sold his entire stack of the morning edition in a few hours without even breaking a sweat. The strike and its resulting halt of newspaper circulation (however brief) had ensured a New York populace that was eager to purchase papers now that they were readily available again. Adjusting his empty newsboy bag on his shoulder, Finch briefly regretted not buying more copies of the _World_ that morning.

He trudged back to the distribution center and found that several other newsies had enjoyed similar selling success and were already waiting in line to purchase the afternoon edition. Finch fell in behind Elmer, giving the other newsie a nod of greeting.

"Where'd ya sell this mornin' Elm?" he asked.

"Over by Bryant Park," the other newsie replied. "I was thinkin' of stakin' out the circus grounds this afternoon, but since it's been so easy movin' the papes today, some of the boys is wantin' to call it a day early and grab a drink at Jacobi's." He gave Finch a friendly smile. "You's welcome to join us, if you want."

Finch considered. He normally would have accepted Elmer's invitation in a heartbeat, but he felt especially antsy and wary of company at the moment.

"Thanks, Elmer, but I think I'll pass...gonna try to sell a few extra this afternoon. Maybe I'll check out the circus for ya." It was a bit of a walk, but he wouldn't mind stretching his legs. Elmer nodded in understanding, and Finch was quiet until he reached the circulation window. Paying for his papers, he gave Elmer a little wave, and then shoved the stack in his newsboy bag and set off for the circus grounds.

The afternoon edition moved as well as the morning one, Finch catching quite a few people on their way to and from the circus, and before long, the hours had passed, and he was selling his last paper. Examining his earnings with a satisfied grin, and wondering if he could still catch the rest of the newsies at Jacobi's, Finch pocketed his money and turned for home.

He had just barely exited the circus grounds when he felt his his foot tread upon something hard. Curious, Finch stopped, bending down to examine the object that was half buried in the grass. It was a nickel. A _wooden_ nickel, to be precise, probably dropped by a patron of the circus.

A disbelieving laugh burst from Finch's mouth as he picked it up, brushing off the dirt with his fingers. Of all the things for him to find, it had to be a wooden nickel. Hadn't he just been singing (albeit facetiously) about this with his friends at Jacobi's?

Finch glanced up at the sky dubiously, wondering if this wasn't really some kind of cosmic conspiracy. "I didn't mean it, ya know," he said aloud. "It was just a joke, because all of the other fellas was takin' it so seriously, and I knew they was gonna be disappointed." Finch paused, then added, "I ain't like the rest of them….I got no big dreams like Jack, or Romeo, or..." He shut his mouth abruptly, then muttered, "I don't even know who I'm tryin' to talk to, here."

Finch examined the wooden token in his hand, then glanced again at the heavens. "You tryin' to tell me somethin'?" he wondered. Was this meant to be a sign that sometimes even the most outlandish wish could be granted and the most far-fetched dream could come true? Did he need to have a little more faith that sometimes things would, actually, turn out all right - maybe even better than expected?

Receiving no answer, Finch pocketed the wooden token and continued on his way, his mind still mulling over the events of the last few days and what they meant. The trip back to the lodging house went quicker than expected, and before Finch knew it, he was climbing the ladder that led to the building's upper story, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the wall.

* * *

Jack looked up in surprise as Finch pulled himself up on the rooftop. Aside from Crutchie, and occasionally Specs, the newsies rarely ventured up to Jack's penthouse, wordlessly acknowledging his need for a private space to brood, sketch, and collect his thoughts. Concern immediately shot through Jack. If Finch was breaking this unspoken rule and interrupting Jack's solitude, it had to be for something important. The pragmatic, straight-shooting newsie would be the last person to come up to the rooftop merely on a whim.

Jack jumped to his feet. "What's a matter, Finchy?" he asked hurriedly. "The boys in some kind of trouble?"

Finch looked a little guilty. "Nah, Jack. They's all fine." He glanced around nervously. "I actually just had somethin' to ask ya. A favor."

The tension drained out of Jack almost as quickly as it had come. "Oh, is that what you're after?" He let out a relieved chuckle. "Well, I ain't promising nothin,' but go ahead an' shoot."

Finch hesitated a bit before asking, "You lookin' for some practice drawin' now that you got that high-falutin' job with the _World_?"

Jack shrugged, caught off guard by the question. "Could always use practice. Why?"

"Well…" Finch fidgeted a little, "how about drawin' me?"

"Why sure," Jack said, fishing a stub of a pencil out of his pocket, and looking around in a vain attempt to locate his sketchpad. "But I gotta go downstairs to get some paper or somethin' - "

Finch interrupted. "You wanna try drawin' on somethin' a little smaller?"

"Like what?" Jack asked, intrigued.

Finch reached into his pocket and pulled out the wooden nickel. "This." He tossed the token to Jack, who barely caught it in time.

"You crazy, Finchy?" Jack asked, both amused and perplexed. "How'm I supposed to fit your puss on this tiny thing?"

"Just humor me, alright?" Finch struck a pose. "Make sure to get my good side."

And so, with a laugh and a disbelieving shake of his head, Jack did.

* * *

_**A/N**__: Finch (in my humble opinion) has some of the best lines in the ensemble, and I wish I could have incorporated more of them into this story, but, alas, there was no room in the narrative arc for a banker, bum, or barber (literate or not). Thank you for reading, and please do let me know what you thought!_

_**Up next: **__Jojo gets his solid gold watch, but not in the way he expects. _


	6. Jojo

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies_ belong to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Jojo tugged at the stiff collar of his crisply pressed shirt as he hurried down the street, glancing at the clock in the town square as he passed by. _7:42 a.m._ He was right on schedule.

It was an overcast day; dark clouds hung heavy in the sky, and the air was damp with the promise of approaching rain. Careful to avoid the puddles left by the previous night's storm, Jojo wove his way through the trickle of people milling about the streets, his umbrella tucked under his arm. In a dark suit and leather gloves, he cut a handsome figure, and was on the receiving end of more than one admiring stare. Normally, he would have returned such perusal with a grin or a wink, but it certainly wasn't the time for that now, so he only nodded politely and continued on without breaking stride.

Unlike most members of the junior staff, Jojo did not keep a room at the Hancock mansion, which meant walking to work early each morning. Normally, he didn't mind; his apartment wasn't that far away, and the walk was a chance for him to get some fresh air. But it was on days like these - when the streets were muddy and Jojo's thoughts were heavy - that he wished he could have avoided the brief trip altogether.

Turning onto 5th Avenue, he took in the sight of the grand mansions standing proudly abreast as they towered over the people passing on the streets below. Seven years of taking in the same view every morning had not diminished Jojo's appreciation for the prospect; he would always be a little bit in awe, even if today that awe was tinged with melancholy.

Climbing the steps to one of the stately abodes, Jojo knocked briskly on the door. Normally, his routine would take him around the back of the house to the garage, where he would maintain Mr. Hancock's Cadillac and prepare it for driving. But today, the automobile's engine sat cold. There would be no driving today.

Mrs. Minard, the housekeeper, answered the door just as Jojo was about to knock again. "Oh, Jojo, it's you," she said tiredly. "I'm not used to you coming in through the front." She looked exhausted from the events of the last several days and the welter of unexpected tasks which had fallen upon her shoulders. The black dress she wore only served to make her look even more pale and drawn.

With a word of thanks, Jojo stepped inside the door, stowing his umbrella in the receptacle by the entryway, and trying not to sneeze as the the cloying scent of flowers assaulted him. There were several large floral arrangements in the entryway, and these he gratefully bypassed as Mrs. Minard ushered him up the grand staircase that led to the mansion's upper story.

A few other staff members were waiting outside of the study, similarly dressed in dark colors, with mourning bands matching the one Jojo wore on his left arm. He greeted them soberly, then sat down on one of the hallway benches to wait.

"I fear that Marcus is running behind this morning," the housekeeper apologized to the small group. "He's had quite a profusion of tasks to manage." Jojo and the others murmured their understanding. The recent passing of their employer, James Gaylor Hancock, meant that his steward would have a multitude of tasks to discharge, including meetings with each member of the staff to discuss their future with the Hancock estate. There would, no doubt, be questions and concerns; for all but a few of them, this would mark the end of their employment, and Marcus would have the unhappy task of delivering that news himself.

Jojo heard the muffled sound of the grandfather clock inside the study chiming 8:00 a.m. He had stood in this hallway outside of Mr. Hancock's study on countless occasions, waiting at the ready for his employer to emerge. Often, the man would appear immediately, ready for Jojo to drive him across town to meet with some business partner or prospective investor. Occasionally, he would have an early morning meeting, and Jojo would be waiting outside in the hallway for what seemed like hours. But he showed up promptly without fail at 8:00 a.m. and was ready at the drop of a hat whenever Mr. Hancock emerged from his study. The man had always given Jojo a kindly smile and an appreciative nod, wordlessly acknowledging his punctuality and his presence, even while engrossed in a conversation with whatever important person had come to call.

Jojo stared at the study's closed door. It was surreal to think that he would never see James Hancock open it again. He glanced around at the others who were waiting silently in the hallway, seemingly absorbed in their thoughts. Next to him, the houseboy, Willie, fidgeted uncomfortably. He reminded Jojo of his friend Finch, all darting glances and nervous energy.

Jojo inhaled sharply, a wave of nostalgia hitting him out of nowhere. His days at the lodging house seemed like a distant memory, a world away from the life he was living now. He'd been young and idealistic then, a boy with a mischievous streak a mile long and a secret fascination with the high life, an obsession that belied the fact that he barely had a nickel to his name.

The one thing Jojo _had_ always possessed, however, was ambition. Ambition, and what Race termed "charisma in spades," charisma which Jojo wasn't afraid to use to his advantage. It had certainly helped him as a newsie (the adage that headlines didn't sell papes; rather, the newsboys did, was true). But Jojo had always known that he wouldn't stay a newsie forever.

And so, when opportunity in the form of educated, well-mannered David Jacobs came knocking, Jojo seized it with the zealousness of a boy who knew that his moment had come. He persuaded Davey to teach him everything he knew - reading, mathematics, even a little bit of history. He studied Davey's way of speaking and devoured any books the older newsie was able to bring him, eagerly picking up new words and trying his best to apply them to his daily conversation. This earned him quite a few good-natured insults and cuffs on the head from his peers, who started calling him "The Mini Mouth" and scoffed at Jojo's "high-falutin'" language.

But Jojo persisted. He was a motivated student, and Davey was a patient instructor (despite his protests that he certainly wasn't qualified to teach Jojo the ways of the upper class). Eventually, after almost a year of study, their lessons became fewer and further between, Jojo having learned almost all he could. Davey may have given him his start, but Jojo's single-minded focus was what gave him his success.

Success came through an opportunity afforded by the upper class, well-to-do Katherine Pulitzer. The heiress had connections, and Jojo had his charisma and Davey's teaching, so, with a little effort and a winning smile or two, it wasn't long before he managed to secure a position for himself at the estate of one James Gaylor Hancock, a friend of Katherine's grandfather. He'd started out as a houseboy, but after showing promise had soon been promoted to the position of chauffeur.

That had been eight years ago. Nearly a decade of waking up at the same time each morning, making the same brisk walk to the mansion on 5th Avenue, and getting to drive one of the most beautiful (and well-maintained) automobiles in New York for one of the richest men to breathe its air. Jojo had been paid well, treated kindly, and had gotten his chance to rub shoulders with the wealthy upper class he'd only watched from afar as a newsboy. It had been absolute bliss for him, a literal dream come true. And now, it was all about to change.

The door to the study opened, and Jefferson, the footman, emerged from the room. His face was sober, and he shook hands with several of the staff members as they quietly murmured their goodbyes and well wishes.

Then Jojo's name was called.

He stood and made his way across the hallway, to where the door of the study stood ajar. Marcus sat at his late employer's desk, a stack of papers beside him and a basket full of packages on the ground by his feet. Catching sight of Jojo in the doorway, the steward motioned for him to come in.

"Close the door, please, Jojo," he said, his voice weary but composed. Jojo did as he was asked, then took a seat across from Marcus, folding his hands in front of him and regarding the steward with an even gaze. He already knew what was coming, but he would face it with the same unflappable confidence that he'd worn sitting at this very desk eight years ago, when he had successfully interviewed for the job which was now going to be taken from him. He might walk out the door unemployed, but he would leave with his head held high.

Marcus shuffled through the papers on his desk. "Jojo, as you know, the passing of Mr. Hancock has necessitated a reevaluation of the staffing needs of this estate. We are thankful for the work you've done - it has been excellent - but at this present time we will no longer be in need of your services. As such, your employment with the Hancock estate is terminated, effective at the end of the day. Please make sure to remove any personal belongings you have on the premises, and return any property that belongs to the estate to Mrs. Minard before you leave today." He paused, then said in a much gentler tone, "Please understand that we would keep you on, if we could." The look in his eyes was both sincere and sad, and Jojo nodded his acquiescence. It wasn't Marcus' fault - it wasn't anyone's fault, really. He'd had eight years, eight good years, and he was thankful for them, even if they had come to an end much more abruptly than he'd expected.

Jojo extended his hand to the steward. "It's been a pleasure serving the Hancock estate," he said gravely. "I will always be grateful for my time of employment here." He rose and pushed back his chair, ready to take his leave.

"Wait," Marcus commanded. "There's one more thing." He reached down into the basket and pulled out a package. "Mr. Hancock was well aware of his declining health," the steward explained. "In his final weeks, he picked out a gift for each member of his staff, which he desired for me to give to them upon his passing. This one is yours." He held it out to Jojo.

"Thank you." Jojo took the package, not bothering to hide the surprise in his voice. It wasn't entirely out of character for his former employer to do something like this - James Hancock had always been a kind man - but it was astonishing to think that during the last few days of his life he had considered not just his family and friends, but his staff as well.

Making his way out of the study, and saying his requisite farewells to the other members of the staff waiting in the hall, Jojo hurried downstairs. He exited the mansion through the back door, and made his way around the back of the property to the garage, where he had started each work day for the past eight years. Part of the reason for this detour was practical - he wanted to make sure he left the garage in immaculate order, and he needed to gather a few of his personal belongings - but he also felt an urge to walk one last time in the place that had come to mean so much to him in the most mundane and yet most inexplicably significant way.

Sitting down on the workbench just inside the door, Jojo examined his package. It was small, fitting easily in the palm of his hand, but it seemed a bit heavy. Curious, his fingers worked at the strings of the package until they loosened and came away. Pulling aside the paper, Jojo lifted out the object inside.

It was a gold watch attached to a short chain.

Jojo stared at it in shock. He had seen this watch often; it was Mr. Hancock's favorite to wear when he was going out on social calls. A small lump formed in Jojo's throat. Why had the man left this to him, of all people?

A small piece of paper lay tucked underneath the watch, and Jojo unfolded it to find that it was a note, written in his employer's distinctive hand:

_To Jorgelino Josephino De La Guerra, in appreciation of eight years of faithful service...and for always being on time._

* * *

_**A/N**__: Jojo's "King of New York" wish seemed so over-the-top and unreachable that I wanted to try to conjure up a (semi-)believable way for him to actually get what he was hoping for. _

_**Up next: **__Les decides that maybe sharing a bed with Davey isn't so bad, and sharpens his negotiation skills on his hapless older brother. _


	7. Les

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies_ belong to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Breakfast was watered-down soup and a dry bread roll. Les took a few slurps of the former and mostly ignored the latter, too full of antsy energy to eat.

"Les, I need to step out to go to the grocer's," his mother said. "Please make sure that David wakes up and eats breakfast, and remind him that he needs to drop you off at school again today before he goes to meet the newsboys."

"Yes, Mom," Les answered dutifully. He was sorely tempted to omit the second part of his mother's directive, but Davey would remember anyway, reminder or no, and besides, there was still a chance that having to go to school today wouldn't be a total loss. Les grinned. As soon as the door closed behind his mother, he shoved the half-eaten bowl of soup aside, pushed his chair back from the table, and sauntered over the corner of the room, where his brother was still sound asleep, curled up under a blanket.

"David…" Les shook his brother's arm. "David, wake up. Mom says you need to eat breakfast, and the soup's getting cold."

Davey groaned and rolled over. Les waited patiently. He had done this enough times to know that his brother needed a few extra minutes to fully awake, and that it was better to let him come to on his own. Sure enough, after a moment, Davey roused himself and sat up, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He looked a little more tired than usual.

"You were chatty last night," Les began conversationally. He sat down in his chair by the brothers' shared bed and casually began lacing up his shoes.

"Sorry," Davey yawned, stretching as he uncurled himself from the bedclothes. "Hope I didn't keep you up." Les complained regularly about Davey's sleep talking, and Davey felt a bit bad about it, though there wasn't much he could do other than apologize.

Les chortled gleefully. "Oh, you kept me up all right." He paused. "But it was well worth it."

Davey froze in mid-stretch, suddenly wide awake. "What's that supposed to mean, Les?" he asked suspiciously. There was a cunning gleam in his little brother's eyes that he didn't quite like. "What did I…." he cleared his throat. "What did I say?"

"Oh, nothing much," Les teased. He finished tying his shoes slowly, then kicked back in his chair so that it rested against the wall. "You just went on and on about a certain someone by the name of…" he paused dramatically, as if trying to remember, "oh yes...by the name of Sadie Becker."

The color drained from Davey's face. "Les…"

"It was quite informative, actually," the younger boy continued, looking thoughtful. "You'd been so good at hiding it!" He laughed. "I would have never guessed that you were sweet on her if you hadn't spelled it out for me last night in rather embarrassing detail."

"I am _not_ sweet on her," Davey protested.

"Oh, really?" Les raised a mocking eyebrow. "That's not at all what it sounded like last night." He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Here's proof. I wrote down some of your best one-liners so that I wouldn't forget them." He cleared his throat, then began to read aloud. "Sadie - "

"That won't be necessary," Davey said quickly, before his brother could say any more. "And I'll take that paper, Les." He held out his hand.

"It's not yours for the taking," Les replied smugly, tucking the note safely away in his pocket. "I was actually planning on showing it to Abby today at school."

"Abby? Les, you cannot show that note to Sadie's sister!"

"Why not?" Les asked, all-too-innocently. "Don't you want to know what Sadie thinks about your little infatuation with her and her 'pretty smile'?"

"I am _not_ infatuated with her, and of course I don't want her to know!" Davey shot back, contradicting himself in his panicked state. "Les," he demanded, beckoning again, "you _have_ to give that to me."

"You really want it that badly?" Les asked, pulling the paper out of his pocket and holding it up enticingly.

"Yes...yes, I do." Davey said quickly. "Please, Les." His voice took on a note of pleading. "You can't show that to Abby."

Les paused for a moment, enjoying his older brother's discomfort. How short-sighted it had been for him to wish for his own bed so he could get away from Davey's sleep talking! He would gladly endure an occasional night of disrupted sleep if it meant gaining some leverage on his overprotective, rule-following older brother, and he'd forgotten how satisfying the feeling was.

"Alright, David, I'll make you a deal," he declared magnanimously. "I'll give you this paper and keep your secret...but in exchange, you have to take me with you tonight when you and Jack sneak into Pulitzer's basement to print the Newsies Banner."

Dismay quickly replaced Davey's short-lived relief. "Les, it could be dangerous," he objected.

"And I have to be stuck at school all day, missing out on all the fun!" his younger brother shot back. "It's not fair Mom's letting you get out of class, just because you're older - "

" - because I'm already keeping up with my studies at home," Davey corrected. "And if you applied yourself, you could be doing the same thing."

Les scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. "I don't think now's really the best time for a lecture, big brother. Need I remind you that I hold all the cards here?" He raised an eyebrow at Davey, who exhaled in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Les had to stop himself from cheering. His brother was cornered, and he knew it.

"Mom's going to kill me," Davey muttered finally.

"Not if she doesn't find out!" Les sprung eagerly out of his chair, spat in his hand, and held it out. "So, do we have a deal?"

"Les! That was completely unnecessary," Davey scowled, looking with disgust at his brother's dripping hand.

Les' eyes narrowed. "Do we have a deal, or don't we, David?"

Davey let out a sigh of exasperation, then, forcing down a grimace, spat in his hand and shook on it.

* * *

_**A/N**__: This chapter is my humble explanation for why a responsible older brother like Davey would let Les come to something as potentially dangerous as printing the Newsies Banner in Pulitzer's basement. It would be a very out-of-character thing for Davey to do...unless there was some kind of coercion involved ;). Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please let me know what you thought of it! _

**Up next: **_Mush gets the chance he's been hoping for, but everything nearly falls through until some unexpected help arrives._


	8. Mush

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies_ belong to Disney and not to me.

_**A/N: **__I apologize for the long delay - I've been busy with life and with my other multi-chapter story, and I don't multi-task very well, but here's an update! :) This chapter is dedicated to __Disneyfan10_ _and __9mouse9__, two faithful readers and two huge fans of Mush. I hope I did your favorite newsie justice! ;)_

_For reference, this chapter takes place several days after the strike's conclusion._

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It was early morning at the newsboy lodging house, and Mush was in a quandary.

"Please fellas," he pleaded. "Help a brother out. I ain't gonna get a chance like this again...I'm beggin' here!" His eyes darted frantically from one newsie to the next. "Henry!" he exclaimed, "you's lookin' look like you could use a trim. How about it, huh?"

The other newsie shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, Mush, but I gotta go watch my brother this afternoon so my ma can do the grocery shoppin.'"

Undaunted, Mush turned to the next newsie in line. "Jojo," he implored, "you'll help me, right?"

The other boy regarded him shrewdly. "You got any money to sweeten the deal?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mush's face fell. "You know I don't," he answered helplessly. The several days of unemployment caused by the strike had drained his meagre savings, and even though the newsboys had been back to work for a few days now, Mush hadn't managed to build up a reserve yet.

"Then I ain't got any hair for you to cut, either," Jojo responded mercilessly.

Mush sighed, his optimism beginning to crumble as he continued down the line. "Racer - " he began.

Race held up a hand. "Don't even think about it, Mushy. Ain't you forgettin' you's already ruined my hair once already?"

"Mutt-cut!" Albert coughed under his breath.

Mush grimaced. "Well, yeah, Race...but that was a long time ago," he said. "I'm a lot better now, honest!"

The gambler only grunted in reply.

Mush made one final attempt. "Romeo! You got a date tonight, right?" The younger newsie nodded, unable to keep the grin off of his face. "Well, why don'tcha let me get you lookin' all sharp so you can impress your girl?" Mush coaxed, giving Romeo his biggest smile. "Nothin' too drastic, just a little trim here, a little trim there…"

"No way," Romeo shook his head. "I ain't riskin' it - this is the first real date I've landed in months, and I ain't lettin' you anywhere near my hair." He pulled his cap down over his head for emphasis.

Mush sighed. It was hopeless. At this rate, he was going to have to resort to cutting his _own_ hair, and he doubted any good would come from that. It was the worst possible timing - just when he'd finally gotten the chance he'd been hoping for - to learn from a _real _barber - that, of course, would be the one time he wasn't able to find anyone to practice on.

He would have to just tell Katherine that he couldn't take her up on her offer. Mush had confided in the reporter several days ago regarding his dream of learning how to cut hair from a real barber (he still wasn't sure why he'd shared such a personal matter with her, but he'd chalked it up to Katherine being good at drawing people out, since she was a reporter whose job it was to sniff out stories). At the time, she'd listened thoughtfully, but hadn't said much. Yesterday, however, she'd approached him excitedly and had told him that if he was still interested in learning how to cut hair from a real barber, she had a contact, and he could meet with Mush the following afternoon, provided he was able to find someone to bring along as a practice subject. Ecstatic, Mush had agreed - he figured it wouldn't be that difficult to find a volunteer in a lodging house full of boys.

Apparently, however, he'd been a little too optimistic. It seemed like no one was going to be willing to help him out.

Just as Mush was about to resign himself to his fate, footsteps sounded on the stairway, and Les Jacobs appeared, smiling cheerfully. "Hey everyone!" he chirped. "How's it going?"

Several sets of eyes darted immediately from Les...to Mush...then back to Les.

"Goin' fine, kid," Mush answered cautiously, trying not to get too excited. He glanced over Les' shoulder. "Where's your brother?" The younger Jacobs boy might be easily convinced into having his hair experimented on, but Mush was fairly certain that Davey wouldn't be on board with the plan.

"He dropped me off and then had to run back home," Les explained. "He said he forgot to do something and had to go back to take care of it, but that he'll meet us at the distribution center."

Race gave a snort of disbelief. "It ain't like Davey to forget things..." He nudged Mush. "But I guess today's your lucky day." Mush couldn't help but grin in return. Maybe the situation wasn't as hopeless as he'd thought.

"So, what's going on?" Les asked, settling himself onto one of the bunkbeds beside Romeo.

Mush tried to keep his voice calm. "Well, actually, I was just tellin' the fellas here about a special opportunity," he said. "After I finish sellin' papes today, I'm gonna get to meet a barber - one of the best barbers in the business - and he's givin' me a real special opportunity to cut one lucky fella's hair...for free! Just think - a real barbershop haircut that don't cost a dime, let alone a quarter. It's the chance of a lifetime! The only problem is, I can't decide which one of these bummers is deservin' of such an honor - "

"Oooh, how about me?" Les asked, springing up from the bed with his hand raised. "Can I be your volunteer? Please? _Please?_"

Albert let out a conspicuous cough, and several of the other newsies struggled to keep their expressions neutral. "Well...I suppose since you _were_ the first to call it…" Mush said slowly, trying to keep a grin from spreading across his face. "I guess I can let'cha have a turn this time."

"Yes!" Les pumped his fist in the air. "Wait 'till I tell David about this!"

"Yeah, hah, about that…" Mush cringed. "Why don't we just keep it a secret for now - you know, let it be a...surprise?"

Les pondered this for a moment. "I don't know," he said doubtfully. "David _hates_ surprises."

"But you like 'em, right?" Mush suggested, poking the younger boy mischievously. Les nodded, the smile beginning to return to his face.

"Then why not give it a try?" Mush continued, pleased with himself at having side-stepped the potential hang-up. "Besides," he added, "your brother's a little too serious for his own good - some surprisin' could probably loosen him up a bit."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Race snort-laughed.

Mush ignored him. "So, it's a deal, then?" he asked, spitting in his palm and holding it out to Les. "Later today, after we sell the afternoon edition?"

Les spat in his hand and shook the older boy's eagerly. "It's a deal!" he agreed.

"All right." Mush clapped the younger newsie on the back. "Now I just gotta figure out a way to explain this to your brother once he finds out." The prospect of having to eventually fill Davey in was only slightly intimidating; now that Mush had secured Les' cooperation and his spit-shake to seal the deal, even the older Jacobs boy would have a hard time getting his brother out of the arrangement. Les would dig his heels in, for one thing, and Davey would probably (if reluctantly) allow the plan to play out, because Les had already given his word, and if there was one thing Mush knew about Davey, it was that he was rather straight-laced when it came to telling the truth and following through on what you said you'd do.

It was a weakness Mush and the other newsies didn't mind good-naturedly exploiting just a little.

The rest of the day passed quickly for Mush, who was almost dizzy with excitement. He sold his papers in record time, both the morning and afternoon editions, and was waiting eagerly for Les by the circulation gate when the younger newsie arrived, having just sold his final copy of _The World_. As expected, Davey, who had gotten wind of the scheme and was none-too-happy about it, put up a half-hearted protest about it being a bad idea, but surprisingly, he didn't bellyache for too long. With a wary reminder to not do anything foolish and a request that Mush drop Les off at the Jacobs' tenement once the haircutting had been completed, Davey took his leave.

"Okay, kid," Mush grinned, putting his hand on Les' shoulder. "Let's get back to the lodging house. Katherine's gonna meet us there with her barber friend."

The two boys hurried to the lodging house and found that Katherine was already there, waiting outside with a burly man dressed in a brown vest and a gray-and-white striped coat. A green train case was in his hands, and Mush found himself eagerly wondering what kind of haircutting implements were inside.

"Mush!" Katherine called out cheerfully.

"Sorry to keep ya waitin'," Mush apologized as they drew near. "We just finished sellin', but we's all ready to get to work now."

"And you've got your volunteer here too, I see," Katherine smiled at Les, who nodded eagerly. "Well, gentlemen," she said, "I'd like to introduce you to my father's personal barber. Mr. Nunzio, these are my friends, Mush and Les. Boys, this is Mr. Nunzio."

"Pleased to meet ya," Mush said, tipping his cap respectfully, a little in awe of the fact that he was going to get lessons from the man who cut Joseph Pulitzer's hair. The mustachioed Nunzio returned the greeting in his accented voice, then gave a little bob of a bow to Les, who grinned in response.

Mush found himself grinning, too. This was going to be even better than what he'd hoped for.

"Well, now that the introductions have been completed," Katherine said briskly, "I think it's time for the barbershop lessons to commence." She motioned for the excited Mush to lead the way into the lodging house, smiling brightly as she declared, "Let's _begin_!"


End file.
